


and i'm so weak

by kissteethstainred



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Character Study, I lied there are relationships, I'm really sad guys, Jumping on jen's second pov train, Mickey Milkovich/Svetlana friendship, POV Mickey, POV Second Person, Post-Series, post 5x12, this wouldn't leave me sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-06
Updated: 2015-06-06
Packaged: 2018-04-03 02:59:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,416
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4084051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kissteethstainred/pseuds/kissteethstainred
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first day after he left you (fuck), you say, “He broke up with me” out loud and you laugh. </p><p>Two hours later, the joke isn’t funny anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and i'm so weak

**Author's Note:**

  * For [the hell does that even mean?](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=the+hell+does+that+even+mean%3F).



> I couldn't put this in the tags so I'll put it here: ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> I'm sad about Mickey Milkovich. Oh man, I'm so fucking sad about Mickey Milkovich. I'm just literally heartbroken, like fuck. And so I write. Because I'm heartbroken. So enjoy a heartbreaking post-season 5 fic about Mickey Milkovich :) 
> 
> :) 
> 
> :)
> 
> comments and kudos would be absolutely fab. even if it's yelling at me. bring it. BRING IT

The first day after he left you ( _fuck_ ), you say, “He broke up with me” out loud and you laugh.

Two hours later, the joke isn’t funny anymore. You laugh until you start crying. You cry until you start drinking. You drink until you black out. You black out until the morning, where you wake up with a pounding head and a dry mouth. _Holy fuck, he broke up with me_ , you think, and then, _what the fuck am I supposed to do now?_

-

You read somewhere, or heard somewhere, that there are cycles. Mental cycles—denial, anger, sadness, whatever. You don’t remember them all or even how many there are, but you know you’re going through it. Some days your face feels dry from how much you’ve cried, and some days your hand aches from the hole you just punched in the wall, and some days you want to run to him and plead with him to take you back.

You don’t. You were never that weak.

Was it weakness, before? You can’t tell anymore.

-

You condition yourself. Don’t say his name, not even in your mind. Never walk in the direction of his house, and if you have to, walk the long way around. Don’t go by the school—you might see his siblings. You don’t want them talking to you. You don’t want anyone talking to you.

Not that anyone does talk to you.

Lately you haven’t even liked your own thoughts.

-

You wonder if people talk about you. People have always talked about you—your clothes, your hair, your smell, your family, your last name, your weapons, your destruction. They whispered to each other behind your back and kissed your ass while you were in their face (or they screamed if they were under your hands—god, your hands used to be so bloody). When you and him were out, there was more whispering, because they were shocked or grossed out, but you knew it was because they hadn’t known—they were shocked because they didn’t actually know you.

You wonder what they’re whispering now. You find that you don’t want to know. You know that before it’s because you didn’t care what they said, but now you do.

Fuck, now you do.

-

It’s lonely in your house. _Your house_ , you think, and then laugh, sardonically, because nothing is truly funny anymore. Your house because you’re the last one left. Your house because you pay for this shit now. Your house because you live and sleep and eat in it now. You wonder if you’ll be like your mother and die in it, too.

Holy shit, your mother.

You stare down at the beer in your hands. You’re sitting on the couch. Not the same couch she’d died on, because Terry had burned it the night she’d died. But you think about that couch, how they’re similar colors and size, and you stare down at your legs. The living room is a fucking mess, beer bottles everywhere, cigarette smoke filling up the space, and you don’t even remember where you last put the weed.

Your mother.

Your hands are shaking and your heart is beating fast, breath shallow and weak. It’s almost like you snap out of yourself—or maybe you return to yourself—and you’re jumping off the couch like it’s on fire, like your mother’s couch on fire, dropping the beer can. You need to leave. You need to leave or something bad will happen, you just know it. You forget to grab your jacket, and it’s still winter, so one step outside makes you fucking freeze your ass off. You don’t have your jacket, so you can’t leave. But you don’t want to stay.

You walk down the steps and sit on the bottom one. The winter itself hadn’t been harsh, but everything else during this time had been. It’s nighttime, and the air is frigid. You breathe out and pretend your frosty breath is cigarette smoke.

You wake up. That’s what this feels like. You’re waking up.

-

You remember: you were a survivor. Before you were a Milkovich, before you were Mickey, before you were _his_ , you were this. That’s what you’ve always been, that’s what you’ve always needed to be. You can do this. You’ve already begun to try and survive, you realize—the drugs and alcohol, the conditioning yourself on his name. So you can survive now, but just _you_ , you alone, not the alcohol or the drugs or the cigarettes. You, your strength and your mind and your will. You can do it.

So you will.

It cost you to survive before, you know it did. It will cost you this time. You’re ready to pay the price.

-

You learn not to be your mother.

You pour all the alcohol down the drain and watch it swirl down the sink. Your mouth is already dry, craving, thirsty, but you remember the dryness of your mouth after you wake up, hungover, and you tip the bottle even further. After all the bottles are empty, you turn on the faucet and wash away the smell of the whiskey.

You get rid of all the drugs. You search through your house, your room and Iggy’s room and Mandy’s old room and Terry’s old room, and you throw away everything you find. If you can burn it, all the better. There’s something extremely satisfying about watching it burn. It pleases the anger that lies dormant inside of you.

You don’t die on that couch. Instead, you clean it up. You open the window a fraction and let a sliver of light in. You cook some real food, if mac and cheese can be considered real food. You get more than three hours of sleep.

You will not be her.

-

You learn to not be Terry.

You look at your empty house and think about Svetlana and Yevgeny. Your wife and kid. It makes you wince, that phrase, but it hurts far less than what he did. You’re surprised to find them at the Ball’s house, but even more surprised that you hadn’t cared before.

You don’t beg Svetlana or anything. You tell her that the house is open and nothing is going to happen to Yevgeny. She doesn’t believe you, and she asks you pointed questions about him, but you give her tight, clipped responses, and you think maybe she knows. She knows, and she comes home with you, Yevgeny babbling nonsensically in her arms.

You watch them walk around and wonder if your mother and father were like this. If they ever walked around the house, your mother with your brother in her arms or in her stomach, eyeing the living room and looking at each other, bright eyed. Svetlana hands Yevgeny over for you to hold, and you stare at the baby in her arms. She raises an eyebrow at you, almost impatient.

You don’t have to. The deal before was that you cared for the baby and he was allowed to stay. He’s not here anymore. You don’t have to deal with the kid—your kid. Leave it to Svetlana, she’s just here for the house.

But you won’t be your father. You won’t raise this kid in hate. You won’t raise this kid in ignorance. You won’t raise him in violence. You certainly won’t raise him in negligence. You don’t love this kid, but he’s your blood, and fuck it if you’re going to leave him alone. You’re not your father, you never wanted to be. You don’t want to fuck this kid over like Terry fucked you over.

You take Yevgeny from her hands.

-

Your promise to help Yevgeny—the promise you made yourself, out of some bullshit duty that keeps you from touching drugs or alcohol—stops you from turning to crime.

The city barely fucking cares about your house, and they haven’t raised the price that Terry forced them (with guns and broken bones) to accept. Maybe they think you’re just like him. Whatever the case is, the price is still low, so you have some extra money. But you’re not turning to crime anymore, and you tell Svetlana she’s not allowed to either. She looks mad, but then Yevgeny touches her cheek with his hand, and her face softens. She understands.

You get a job at the construction yard. She gets a job at a diner. Both of your pays are shit, but then again, your house doesn’t cost that much.

-

Your only problem is that there’s no one to take care of Yevgeny. You’re at work, and the diner doesn’t allow a squabbling and crying baby, and Mandy’s not here.

“I’ll have to quit,” Svetlana says. “Who can watch him?” _Who can we trust?_ Who would even want to watch a Milkovich baby?

You open your mouth, and her name is almost off your lips. _Debbie_. But then you pull back, shut your mouth. Debbie isn’t quite the same, and you would be lying if your main reason is not wanting to see him. Or even be close to him. Or even want to associate with any Gallaghers.

Your next option is a failure too, because Sheila left ages ago. Svetlana is staring at you, confused, and you realize you’re frozen. You’ve got nothing. Your mouth won’t open. What is wrong with you?

“I’ll talk to Veronica, see if she can help,” Svetlana says, a small crease between her eyebrows. She’s worried about you. It almost makes you laugh. _Look what you’ve done_ , you think to yourself. You’ve gotten her to like you through compassion. Or pity.

You nod, and she goes to the phone.

-

You don’t quit smoking. You can’t. You’ll always be nervous, you’ll always be jittery. You feel calm with a cigarette between your lips. The smoke burns and you like it. The smoke smells and you like it.

Svetlana gives you a pack the next day, even though you still have a remotely full one. She’s come to like you, in a way. Maybe she understands what surviving is about—no, she does. She definitely does.

You eat her breakfast in the morning and you make dinner for the three of you at night. You watch Yevgeny on your days off or when Svetlana has the night shift at the diner. You have small, quiet talk with her. Sometimes it drives you fucking nuts, but mostly you’re just relieved.

-

You return to your old self. You become a bit harder, cold and cutting to those not close to you. You don’t let anybody in. You forget about him, you block him out. That’s how you survived him in the first place, didn’t you?

You ignore the part where you eventually didn’t survive him, you fell for him long and hard. You only remember that you got hurt, in the end. That’s enough.

Except you’re not the same. Before you were scared, of your father, of your family, of yourself. You blocked him out because you were scared and you needed to cover it up.

You’re not scared anymore, you’re only heartbroken. And you don’t fuck girls anymore to cover up for yourself—fuck, you don’t even fuck guys anymore. The thought makes you sick. _Fuck him for ruining that_ , you think one night in bed, but then you’re not so sure. Mostly you just hate that you miss him, his body and his touch, you hate that he had felt like no other, you hate that you believed it. That you still believe it.

How could you have let him hurt you this much?

You’re not your old self. Then again, who the fuck was your old self? That was just a cover up. You pretended because your father would kill you, you pretended because you could be found out, you pretended because he was too nosy, he wanted too much, and you couldn’t give it to him.

Who are you?

You let yourself be molded by too many people. For your whole fucking childhood, for basically your whole life, you molded yourself to fit your father’s expectations, you made yourself Terry’s, you made yourself a Milkovich. Only you fucked guys. And that one thing, that one tiny thing, made you _his_. So you molded yourself to him, your body and your mouth and your hands and your heart. You were his. Now you’re not. Who are you? _Who are you?_ You don't recognize yourself. 

Mickey Milkovich never existed, you realize. You have been molded for so long that you don’t know if anything you ever do from this point will be of your own will or from some background thought that someone else molded into you. You lost yourself in your desire to be his.

-

Mandy doesn’t answer your calls, but she answers your texts. You don’t realize that she’s mad at you until she texts you: _why don’t you go be a big boy and tell ian hello for me?_

You shut your phone off at his name, closing your eyes. Your hands are shaking again, but you’re not even beginning to cry. Improvement. ( _Is it?_ )

If Mandy’s gonna be like this, you’re gonna be a bitch back.

 _Come home_ , you text her. It’s the only text she doesn’t respond to.

-

You only get three things to worry about in this world. Before, when Terry was here, and you and _him_ only fucked at the dugouts and the store, you worried about these three things: you worried about your father, your life, and him. They were your priorities, only you never told him that. And your father and your life always came before him.

Now you’re different. You keep three different things close to you: your wife and kid, your sister, and yourself. Whoever you are, you’re going to protect him. You’re going to be yourself. You sacrificed who you were in order to survive. You sacrificed your sister for your father. You sacrificed your wife and kid for _him_. No more, not any longer. You’re setting your priorities straight.

And you’ve never been straight. The thought makes you smile. It’s the first time in a long one.

-

Except you’re wondering. The only thing left of yourself that’s real, that’s only you, is your feelings. Your emotions, all that anger and sadness and pain, that’s all you and you alone. Only you’ve cut yourself off, made yourself hard and cold again. You allow room for Svetlana and Yevgeny—and Mandy when she allows it—but otherwise you’re a lone wolf, in a way.

You get mad, suddenly. You think about laughing. You used to laugh with him all the time, you smiled, you kissed and fucked and felt happiness. It wasn’t only with him. It couldn’t have only been with him. That would be way too much power over you (and you hadn’t even noticed it).

Who were you? Who are you? Are you the person that beat people up in the name of your father? Are you the person who only fucked him but protected yourself in awful ways? Are you the person that left Svetlana and Yevgeny? Are you the person that laughed and kissed his lips and felt free? Was it him that made you feel that way?

You’re angry. You’re angry, and your hands are clenched into fists. “Was it him?” you say, voice shaking. Your fingernails dig into your palm. It doesn't hurt as much as this. “Was it him? Why the _fuck_ was it him?” you demand. You’re raging, you’re screaming, you’re crying. “ _Why the fuck was it him_?”

You open your first beer in weeks.

And your second, and third, and—

-

You wake up in the morning and your head hurts. The classic dryness of mouth make you wince and groan. Your shoulder hurts for reasons you can’t remember from last night. You’re still angry, but mostly you’re disappointed in yourself. You feel pathetic—weak. You’re weak, and you’re acknowledging it.

You wonder what surviving truly is. You wonder if he’s surviving, and then you’re hit with the horrible thought that he’s not struggling at all, that he’s fine, that he’s happy. You want another drink. You go take a piss instead and then, smelling the rank scent of alcohol on your body, step into the shower.

Svetlana is at the stove when you walk in, Yevgeny in his high chair. He’s been getting into cheerios lately, and they’re all over the floor by his feet. You wonder if you’ll always feel this detachment towards your kid.

You sit down heavily in the chair and watch Yevgeny struggle to pick up the cheerio. He’s really struggling, chubby fingers grasping at and slipping over the cheerios. It’s so fucking easy, and he can’t do it. It feels like you. You’re Yevgeny, struggling at the fucking cheerio of life, and it should be so fucking easy, but it’s _not_.

Svetlana comes over with a plate of eggs and some toast and puts it down in front of you. “Sorry for the rough night,” she says, voice kind and nonjudgmental.

You nod at her, a bit gratefully, and tell her, “It won’t happen again.”

-

Nightmares aren’t the worst anymore. The thing you dread the most are memories and dreams of him.

-

You don’t know what okay would even be. That’s what people say, right? “I’m okay.” Or, “I’m fine.” Seriously, Svetlana, I’m fine. I promise. Yes, I’ll watch Yevgeny today. I’m okay.

Or better. You wonder what the fuck better is. Could you say you’ve gotten better? How do you define what that means?

You don’t smile anymore. You hardly laugh. Aren’t those signs of happiness? You’re not sure whether you’re happy or not. Not happy, but at least content. Even then, you’re not sure. You hardly like fucking around anymore. You’re not even sure of any desires you have, except one, which involves him and so it’s fucking not even possible. You don’t want it to be possible.

But you don’t drink, except for that one night. You don’t do any drugs. You’re not involved in any crime. Surely, that’s better. Surely, that’s good. Surely, you’re fine.

Only you don’t feel fine, or better, or good. You just don’t.

You know you still love him. You can accept that, you can think that, without getting angry, without crying, without hatred towards yourself or him. It’s supposed to be improvement, but is it? _Is it?_

-

You don’t know yourself. You’ve been trying to figure it out, but maybe weeks and months is too short. You need your childhood back, you need all those years. You need your love back, all those kisses and sacrifices.

So you still don’t know yourself, but you think you’re going to someday. You’re willing to wait. You’ve waited long enough. This wait will pay off.

Mandy returns on a Monday. She’s talking to Svetlana at the dining room table when you get back from work. You can just see a scar fading on her jaw, but she’s back and so you don’t bring it up.

It’s hard between you two. You’ve always worked together best in a crisis, you’ve based your love for each other on protecting each other, fighting other people for each other, but never actual bonding. It’s hard, opening up and talking. She wants to know about what happened with him, and you won’t tell her. You fear the rekindling of their old friendship, but he is never at the house. It’s hard, but she’s alive, and you see her with less bruises and frowns than you’ve ever seen her before. She smiles and bonds with Svetlana, even quicker than you did, and another voice, another life fills the house. Your sister is with you, and on that, you feel content.

Your wife and kid are good. They’re happy, so you’re not worrying about them. You do dumb, domestic shit with them—you take Yevgeny to get a shot, you buy groceries for everyone, you wait until Svetlana sings Yev to sleep to go to bed—but they’re both healthy and safe. That’s good enough for you.

Everything isn’t okay. You can’t define everything in your life, and you’re just realizing it. You can only control certain things around you. Your three priorities are doing fairly well, all things considering. You, your sister, your wife and kid.

You’re not happy, but you’re calmer. You’re used to it. You’re accepting everything in pieces, fragments.

You’re settling. And you think that will be enough. 

**Author's Note:**

> title . . . is from the fabulous [Famous Last Words by My Chemical Romance](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8bbTtPL1jRs). Listen to it and cry about Mickey Milkovich: 
> 
> "Well is it hard understanding I'm incomplete? A life that's so demanding, I get so weak. A love that's so demanding, I can't speak . . . I am not afraid to keep on living. I am not afraid to walk this world alone. Honey if you stay, I'll be forgiven. Nothing you can say can stop me going home."


End file.
